


Endure, My Heart

by irrationalkate



Series: Jon x Sansa Remix 2017 [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon x Sansa Remix, The Odyssey AU, this is more just sansa being a badass QitN, with a fluffy jonsa ending tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 16:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalkate/pseuds/irrationalkate
Summary: King Jon has been missing ever since the War for the Dawn ended. His queen has never given up on his return, but her many suitors think she can be convinced otherwise.-(Odyssey Remix feat. Jon as Odysseus and Sansa as Penelope)





	Endure, My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> so life happened and i couldn't upload this remix as planned RIP... but I'll probably upload Day 4 tonight and Day 5 tomorrow anyway since they were all half-written already! yay for Jonsa content! let's get our bbs to 3K <3

 

>  “Endure, my heart; a worse thing even than this didst thou once endure…”
> 
> - _Homer, "The Odyssey"_

* * *

There was a new group of smallfolk in Wintertown. 

 

This group was a small one. A family, a father and three children from the Northern mountain clans; a half-frozen septon who had wandered too far north; and a stooped man with a ratty grey cloak pulled over his face to shield him from the cold. Sansa welcomed them warmly, introducing herself and explaining that they would be given a hot meal and whatever furs and new clothes could be spared. She handed them off to her steward, turned on her heel and put on her queenly face.

 

Her many suitors had demanded a council.

 

It had been 10 years since the Long Night had begun. Even after the defeat of the Night’s King five years hence, winter had not let up; it was now the longest winter ever recorded in Westeros. The remote villages and clans who typically waited out coldest season now traveled to Wintertown, desperate for food and warmth.

 

But the colder it became, the shrewder the queen of winter was. She had built the glass gardens before the grounds froze; she negotiated trades and treaties with the surrounding kingdoms so that the north could supplement its food supply even in the dead of winter. She organized infrastructure, so that the food might go where it was needed most and travel would be eased when the drifts got too high.

 

She presided over disagreements and legal troubles truly and fairly; Sansa was known to weigh carefully all possible outcomes and almost always she came up with the best answer. The door to the Great Hall was open to anyone of any rank who might wish to bring a complaint to her attention. She defended the rights of the most vulnerable under her charge tirelessly.

 

Still, it was not enough.

 

Her king had been gone for a long time. Too long. Ten years she had been without Jon, her partner, her confidant. Her love. The northern lords had learned long ago not to ask if she would marry again, and even the ones who brought the matter to her attention did so in a respectful way that she so deserved as Queen in the North.

 

Not so for the southern lords who thought it was high time she secured her throne. No matter that she already had an heir - the one gift Jon had left her - they had the gall to presume she would have to marry again.

 

Oh, she knew her southern courtesies well. She wheedled and wiled, telling them in every possible way that she would not take another husband without once making an enemy of any of them. But that had been a foolish mistake: thinking her opinion might be swayed, more and more men had appeared.

 

One hundred men. One hundred annoying, pushy, _craven_ men had come to ask her hand.

 

Sweet Willas. Naive Edric. Cocky Patrek. Fickle Ronnet. Scheming Petyr, gruff Martyn, honorable Dickon, arrogant Marq, dim Tyrek, laughing Addam, shy Quentyn, cowardly Cleos -

 

“It’s been ten years since King Jon left to fight the War for the Dawn, my queen.” Petyr edged toward her weirwood throne, his voice tender. Ghost, her sentinel, growled at him and his body paused. She wished his mouth would do the same.

 

“Please, you must reconsider your reluctance to remarry. The future of the North depends on this.”

 

Sansa turned toward him. Her face was made of stone.

 

“You threaten my son, Lord Baelish?” She asked tonelessly. Mutters erupted around them as the lords wondered at Littlefinger’s next move. He took a half-step back and the sweetness of his expression faltered. Next to her, little Robb glared at the smarmy, smooth-talking man. If looks could kill, the prince’s big blue eyes would’ve had Baelish six feet under ground.

 

“No, your grace, I only wish to ensure the security of your throne. As your ally, the Vale is highly invested in such matters.”

 

“Is the northern throne not secure?” Sansa stood. She addressed her lords, her subjects, and her suitors. The people of Wintertown, crammed into the back of the Great Hall, knew and loved her well; they shouted their approval of her rule until she held up a hand to quiet them.

 

“Tell me, Maester Samwell, is my son in good health?”

 

Dear Sam, sweating nervously under the scrutiny of the public, rallied himself. “He is in the best of health, m-my queen,” Sam said, loud and proud. “Healthy as a horse!”

 

Sansa turned to her dearest friend.

 

“Tell me, Lady Commander Brienne - are the walls of Winterfell secure? Do I have cause for fear for the safety of those under my protection?”

 

Brienne, loyal, dear Brienne, stepped forward and took the knee. Sansa repressed the urge to smile fondly at her dear blonde giant. “Winterfell is secure, my queen. No subjects should have cause to fear.”

 

“Lord Manderly, my master of ships. How fares our navy?”

 

“Well, my queen,” he said in a jovial voice. He lifted his goblet of wine in a toast to her. “We grow stronger by the day.”

 

“Lord Cerwyn, my master of coin. How fares our treasury?”

 

“We have repaid the debt owed to the Eyrie with interest, my queen.”

 

“Lord Hornwood, my master of defense. If the worst should happen and I need to call my banners, who of my sworn lords would abandon me?”

 

“None, my queen,” Larence said. “For you have always provided us with our needs more than we could ever have hoped.”

 

“Lady Lyanna, master of laws. How fares northern justice?”

 

The Lady of Bear Island scowled. (Sansa felt a tinge of affection for the stubborn she-bear). “The North remembers its duty as always, your grace.”

 

“Tormund Giantsbane. Tell me: are the free folk content? Have we not tried to meet your needs and treated you as fair as any kneeler?”

 

“Aye, Kneeler Queen,” said Tormund. “You’ve done right by us, even with Jon Snow gone away.”

 

Sansa sat down again and steepled her fingers together. The people quieted down, waiting for her next move. She looked directly at Lord Baelish, and slid her gaze to the side. To her left, a stone column cast a large shadow. If Sansa peered closely, she could see a pair of grey eyes as hard as stone, and a flash of a thin sword called Needle in the torchlight.

 

“Shall I call my master of whispers, Lord Baelish?”

 

Until this moment, she had been immovable stone. For the first time, observing the briefly panic-stricken face of the man called Littlefinger, a smile threatened her lips.

 

“No, my lady. You have demonstrated your capability in ruling. You are without question the Queen in the North.” There was the barest of trembles in his voice. Not many would catch it, but Sansa did. She savored that far more than any fine wine.

 

“So what cause have you to wonder at the security of this realm?” She said. “What cause have you to assume that the North will fail if I do not marry?”

 

“You once had five siblings, did you not?”

 

“Four,” she replied. Her eyes were furious flame trapped behind blue glass. “As you well know.”

 

“Yes, forgive me, my queen,” he said, eyes cast down in false contrition. “I only mean to say - that your lady mother, gods rest her soul, had five children, and only two survive. The Long Night has no mercy. Is it not so?”

 

_The Long Night has no mercy_. Those had been some of Jon’s parting words before he had left to fight the Night’s King. Her fingers clenched around the arm of her throne. Utterly shameless. Even if she had to choose another husband, how could he ever think that she would pick him?

 

“You speak truly, my lord. Though it pains me, perhaps I should consider remarrying to secure the legacy of my house.”

 

Brienne and Sam looked at her askance and unbelieving. The northern lords and smallfolk began to grumble. Robb’s bottom lip wobbled precariously. Even her small council was stunned. She had discussed no such plans with them.

 

“My next husband need only pass one test to gain my hand. Rhaegal awaits his next rider. The man to mount that dragon and survive will be married to me within the fortnight.”

* * *

Sansa went to visit Rhaegal the next morning. Robb bounded ahead of her, his dark curls pulled back into a painfully familiar bun. Ghost stuck to her side. Arya followed them both, leading behind her six sheep strung together with rope. A few smallfolk were there too, in case any of the sheep should need to be corralled. Sansa recognized one of them as the stooped man from yesterday, and felt happy that he should have found a place at Winterfell so soon. Arya was very particular about whose company she kept.

 

“Will you really marry again, mother?”

 

Sansa paused. She leaned down and tugged one loose, dark curl between her fingers. They stood like that for a moment, letting each exhale become a cold cloud in the winter air.

 

“Sweet boy. Only a Targaryen can ride a dragon. And you and your father are the last of the Targaryens.”

 

Robb looked relieved. “I thought - I thought - ”

 

“Never, dear one. I am loyal to your father alone. Should anything happen to you, gods forbid it, Winterfell will pass to your aunt. I will have no more children, unless they are fathered by Jon Snow.”

 

Robb bit his lip and looked up at her, his expression reminding Sansa painfully of his namesake. “Are you happy, mother? I do so want you to be happy.”

 

She hugged him tightly. “The gods are kind, after a fashion,” said Sansa in his ear. “They have taken so much, and yet they have given me the greatest gift I will ever receive.”

 

He wriggled out of her embrace after a long moment and skipped over the ridge fearlessly. They were near about to crest the hill that would lead them to Rhaegal’s favored valley. One of the sheep slipped its enclosure and began to trot away, but Sansa paid it no mind. Her entire focus was on little Robb, and the dragon who could steal him away from her with one cruel breath.

 

Five years ago, when Rhaegal had flown back to Winterfell, Sansa rushed out to meet him. Jon, she had thought, would be on his back. Jon was home.

 

He was not.

 

Rhaegal, furious, mournful, injured Rhaegal, had screeched his loss to the heavens for days. He had lost his charge, his companion. Sansa had touched his mind briefly in her dreams, but she wasn’t made to bond with such an animal. Trying to warg into a dragon was like trying to catch fire in your hands - impossible. Unless you were a Targaryen.

 

The beast was recovered now, though he still seemed to have an air of melancholy.  He surely took after Jon, the dramatic lizard, thought Sansa with wry amusement.

 

Rhaegal had never hurt Robb, or even did anything remotely frightening to him in fact. Sansa reminded herself of this, a steady mantra to keep her breathing even. Robb walked over to the dragon. The beast opened one eye to observe the little Targaryen. The tip of his green, scaly tail twitched but otherwise he didn’t react. Robb reached behind his horns and scratched, and soon enough a great rumble arose from Rhaegal’s chest, a sound Sansa now knew was a satisfied purr. She preferred the purr of the tabby cat who liked to stalk her rooms - _his_ purr didn’t rattle her ribs.

 

They fed the beast without incident. Robb wanted to linger but as much as Sansa wanted to avoid the prying gazes of her many suitors she wished to be away from the dragon more.

 

_You left my king behind, beast. Fail to protect my son at your peril._

 

Sansa turned her burning eyes away from Rhaegal. A light snow had begun to fall. Brienne, ever-watchful, peered into her and noticed something was wrong.

 

“My queen,” she murmured, careful not to draw attention. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Yes, Brienne. All is well. I am simply not looking forward to going back to the keep, while at the same time I am eager to be away from this dragon.”

 

Brienne lowered her gaze to the ground. She had no fondness for dragons either. Viserion, turned wight by the Night’s King, had claimed Jaime Lannister’s life in the War for Dawn. Brienne had slayed the dragon in turn, and become the closest thing to a true knight Sansa had ever known.

 

“Let us begone, then, your grace.”

 

As they made their way back to the keep, Sansa suddenly realized that one of their number was missing.

 

“Where is the older man? The one with the stooped back?” She asked Arya. Her younger sister shrugged, avoiding her gaze. Sansa was immediately suspicious.

 

“He went to get the sheep who wandered away.”

 

She arched one eyebrow. “Surely he doesn’t mean to feed the beast himself.”

 

Arya rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. He just wanted to retrieve it… repay the kindness of the beloved queen in the north.”

 

“As you say.”

* * *

Many months ago, a coalition of her southern suitors and proposed a tourney in honor of her, who had ruled through the Long Night for ten years now.

 

Sansa hadn’t forbidden it. It would be good sport, and more importantly the North would not be paying for it. Let them bring coin and industry to the north; she would take whatever she could from them, the leeches.

 

They were set up just outside the gates of Winterfell. Petyr had paid for the seats to be made, a fine investment into the coffers of House Hornwood; Lord Willas had purchased linens to decorate those stands from House Reed, who grew flax easily in bogs that surrounded their lands. Northern hands were paid to fashion those linens into banners and to stitch the direwolf of House Stark onto all them. This greatly pleased Sansa, but still she wondered if it was worth the trouble.

 

A week now, it had been going on. The damn thing was nearing its end, and thank the gods, for Sansa had no taste of southern customs any more. The posturing made her ill.

 

Not many lords had come from the Vale. Most of them were in Littlefinger's thrall, either through debts owed or secrets known. But one had come. His name was Harrold Hardyng, and he was everything that young Sansa would have loved. He was tall and blonde, with blue eyes; he always made a big show of courtesy around her, behaving as an apex of virtue, but she knew he had slept with half of her maidstaff, and heard that he already had two bastard daughters in the Vale.

 

Still, Harry had performed well. He had won the melee by the skin of his teeth, and he easily bested everyone in the tilts. Now here he came, dressed in shining armor, his white teeth gleaming in the dim northern sunlight, holding a crown of white roses. They were fake roses. Made of satin and strung around a green wire.

 

His horse, a gorgeous thing, dappled grey and mane braided, trotted closer and closer to Sansa’s raised dais.

 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be horrible to marry him, she thought. Her gaze was ice itself as she looked upon the arrogant man. He wasn’t ugly. He was much stupider than Petyr, which was good. Marriage would keep her suitors out of her hair. With his proclivity for fathering bastards, she wouldn’t have to worry about warming his bed too often.

 

She caught Robb scowling at Harry in the corner of her eye and scolded herself for even forming the thought. How loved and cherished had Jon made her feel! Under such loving circumstances her son had been conceived… the idea of bringing a child into this world without such love made her heart hurt. No, she could never.

 

Finally, he drew level with her. He opened his mouth, and before he had even said anything, Sansa prayed for patience.

 

“My queen,” he drawled.

 

She prayed harder.

 

The gods worked in unusual ways. As Harry opened his mouth again, a great screech split the air. A sound that hadn’t been heard in the North for ten years - a playful, and happy sound (though not many people could identify as such). Sansa’s eyes flicked to the sky.

 

Rhaegal was airborne. Not so unusual - but there was a tiny figure on his back. And they were flying closer and closer to Winterfell proper.

 

Shouts erupted around her. People jumped to their feet and screamed. Harry turned his horse around and took off at a gallop, the false crown trampled under hoof.

 

Robb tugged on the sleeve of her gown. “You said only Targaryens could ride dragons!”

 

His voice was wounded but she didn’t look at him. She couldn’t tear her gaze away.

 

Rhaegal came closer and closer until he swooped low over the crowds, roaring his delight. Sansa had eyes only for the man on his back, for now that he was closer she could see it was a man wearing a familiar grey cloak. The same cloak on the man who had come to Winterfell a week prior, and who had been with them when they came to feed Rhaegal.

 

She would have words with Arya later.

 

Rhaegal landed right in the lanes where Harry had won the tourney only a few moments ago and his rider disembarked.

 

He was dirty and ragged. Still dressed in his commoner’s clothing. He stood tall and strong, though, not stooped like before. His hair was long and unruly, tangled like the nest of a bird. A terrible scar bisected one eye, leaving it useless, but the other eye gleamed, roving over the sight of her greedily. There could not be anything more lovely. _Jon, Jon, Jon,_ her heart sang.

 

She stood up, slow and regal. He took a step toward her.

 

“My king,” she said. Sansa stepped off the dais. “You’ve kept us waiting for a long time.”

 

“Aye, my queen.” He moved closer. “I have been gone too long. I feared I had been forgotten.”

 

“Think me faithless, your grace?”

 

“ _Never,_ ” he vowed. The low timbre of his voice spread over her like the lick of a flame. She stepped forward.

 

They were within an arm’s reach of each other.

 

Jon stretched out his burned hand and cupped her cheek.  His hand was warm despite the chill of winter. She leaned into his touch and clutched at his outstretched hand with both of hers.

                                                    

Sansa sobbed. He gathered her into his arms. She clung to him and cried openly, in front of all her subjects, her lords, her suitors. Brienne and Arya were the only two to ever see her tears; and even then it was rare. Her people had never seen her so emotional.

 

Jon’s hands moved upon her so gently, over her braid, across her back, down her arms, anywhere he could reach. He murmured sweetly in her hair, the same thing over and over.

 

“ _I love you, I love you, I love you…_ ”

* * *

The tourney concluded and monarch now returned, the southern lords had no cause to stay, and were quick to leave. The lords and smallfolk of the north rejoiced to have their king again, though all of them acknowledged that the north had been well taken care of in the hands of their capable queen.

 

(Lord Baelish did attempt to linger, but regretfully disappeared under mysterious circumstances a few short weeks after Jon’s return. On an unrelated note, Rhaegal refused all food the day after he had vanished.)

 

Jon cried when he learned he had a son named Robb. The prince was reluctant at first, resentful of his absent father, but seeing how happy his mother was he quickly resolved to know Jon as quickly as possible.

 

The king and queen filled their castle with many more happy babes. All was well.

* * *

 

  



End file.
